Of Roses and Thorns
by a-moomoomoo
Summary: Oscar Wilde once said, "each man kills the thing he loves...the coward does it with a kiss, the brave man with a sword!" Hermione Granger was the bravest of them all. Time Travel!
1. Chapter 1

**Of Roses and Thorns**

**Chapter 1 – Prologue**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim.**

* * *

><p><strong>May 2, 1998<strong>

"I knew I'd see you again." The voice, a smooth, snake-like hiss, came from behind her. Hermione Granger's blood froze as she turned around to face the man she had hoped to never again see. She tried not to betray her fear as she came face to face with Lord Voldemort, his wand trained carefully at her heart. "Hermione," He whispered triumphantly, his eyes narrowing. "I've waited for this moment for so long, my love."

Hermione's pulse quickened. Where had she gone wrong? She had warned Albus Dumbledore, she had given him explicit instructions, had mapped out the location of each Horcrux, had done everything in her power to ensure the defeat of the man in front of her. She felt the frustration well up as tears in her eyes, but dared not to give in. To do so would be weakness in Voldemort's eyes. "I'm not your love," She spat, tightening her grip on her wand. He merely chuckled.

He circled her casually, his wand no longer pointed at her exclusively. "You don't look the way you did during my school boy days. But, of course, I'd recognize you anywhere. I can taste your magic." As if to emphasize his point, his tongue flicked out and she cringed back in disgust. He snickered. "And even if your magical signature weren't so palpable, how could I forget the pathetic, dirty mudblood who destroyed my heart all those years ago?"

"Rot in hell, Tom." Hermione ground out.

Voldemort cocked his head to the left and raised an eyebrow. Before Hermione could blink, he had bound her with invisible rope and she was unable to move. "Your precious Harry Potty and his hero Dumbly spent a good deal believing that if I felt remorse," he spat the word mirthlessly, as if it were a disgusting thing passing through his lips. "That my soul would be saved; that they would be saved. But of course you and I both know that any chance of that vanished the moment you left me. They have you to thank then, don't they, my love?"

Hermione slowly twisted her hand to point her wand at her bindings.

Voldemort continued with a sigh. "You really are no better than my filthy muggle of a father, hm? Muggles are all the same: destroying those who love you without as much as a backward glance."

"You're a piece of work, Tom. You know that? You're a shameful, nasty piece of work. Love? No one would ever love you," Hermione, with a flick of her wand, broke her bindings and aimed at his heart. She smirked at him and continued. "Least of all me."

Voldemort smirked at her and lifted his wand lazily. "Shame."

"Avada Kedavra!" They cast at the same time, but Hermione wasn't as quick. Her eyes widened at the flash of green light.

And then, nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Of Roses and Thorns**

**Chapter 1**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim.**

* * *

><p><strong>May 2, 1998 – One Hour Earlier<strong>

One hour. Hermione had exactly one hour to save Harry, to save the Weasleys, to save the world. Her heart pounded in her chest and there was a distinct ringing in her ears as she backed away from the sight of the family of redheads mourning their fallen member. There was no escaping the sight. The air was heavy with the stench of death. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that it was all a bad dream, that perhaps she was still safely ensconced in her bed at Shell Cottage. She opened her eyes. No such luck.

"Hermione," she heard through the rushing in her ears. Her gaze met that of Ron's, and the distress she saw in his blue eyes nearly broke her heart. "Hermione?" He called to her again, uncertain. She couldn't do this. She couldn't stand around and cry until the hour was up and wait for Voldemort to come destroy everything she loved. Swallowing thickly, she turned on her heel and ran out of the Great Hall, determined to save the world.

Ron made to chase after her, the beautiful girl with the unruly brown curls, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He looked into the face of his brother Percy, a man whose presence had been absent for years. Ron wasn't sure if he was ready to welcome Percy the Prat back into his life just yet with a part of him blaming the man for the lifeless body of their brother Fred lying on the floor and the other part of him despising him for causing their mother such misery. "No, Ron. Let her go." Percy said, the lines on his face deepening. One look at Fred's body, his mum sobbing over her fallen son, and the empty look on George's face was all it took for Ron to decide that he'd stay. His family needed him. Besides, Hermione was the smartest and strongest witch he knew; she didn't need anyone, least of all him.

Hermione stumbled up the stairs of her beloved school, trying not to care that at one point in her life, she had to worry about them taking her to the wrong floor. Now the stairs were motionless. '_Library, library, library…_' The lone word echoed throughout her mind, her thoughts focused on one thing and one thing only: prevention. Not being able to prevent Voldemort's rise to power was the gravest mistake they had made from the start and now any efforts they made to stop him were far too little, too late.

She had to go back to the beginning and warn Dumbledore. Perhaps keep him from admitting Tom Riddle into Hogwarts. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tore through the school, headed for the marvelous library that she held dearer to her heart than any place else in the world. Her heart gave a little twist upon seeing the library doors ripped from their hinges. Thankfully, despite all other damage, many of the shelves still stood. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she headed for the Restricted Section, not pausing to browse or wander, but headed for the only book she hadn't gotten to finish in her last year at Hogwarts.

She found it immediately—the book without a title, full of the most fascinating and dangerous of runes. Flipping the pages, it took her mere seconds to identify the proper runes and, despite minor protests from her stolen wand, cast them, intent on going to a time in the 1940s—anytime at all—to warn Dumbledore of Tom Riddle. Her hands shaking, her mind racing, and her tears threatening to overwhelm her, Hermione climbed through the portal she created and, without a backward glance, disappeared.

* * *

><p><strong>January 1, 1932<strong>

"Who are you?" A small voice called from across the darkened room. Hermione looked up from where she was on the dusty floor and her heart dropped. A boy, no older than five or six, was watching her with wide eyes. Hermione fought the urge to swear; she hadn't meant to be seen, least of all by a child.

She licked her chapped lips nervously. "I…I'm no one. Pretend as if I was never here, alright?"

The boy threw off his thin blanket and sat facing her. "How did you do that?" He pointed at her. "How did you come from air? Tell me."

Hermione blinked at the commanding tone of the boy's voice. "I don't know what you're talking about. I came through the door like any normal person. Now go back to sleep." She pushed her hair out of her face and made to stand.

"You can't move until you tell me how you did that." He whispered, sending chills down her spine. True enough, Hermione found that she was indeed frozen to the spot. With the exception of her head, she could not move. "Now tell me."

Hermione cursed. She knew there was something wrong with the child. There were many instances of accidental magic in wizarding children and wish magic was by no means uncommon, but for it to be so specific and with this amount of control was certainly out of the ordinary. She wondered briefly who this boy's parents were. "I'll tell you if you answer some questions for me, alright?"

The boy eyed her suspiciously for a moment, the moonlight shining in through the window casting an eerie glow on his face. "Okay." He finally breathed.

"What's the date?"

"Mrs. Cole said that yesterday I turned seven."

"That's not answering my question." Hermione was growing impatient with this child. She needed to get to Dumbledore, she needed to warn him of Voldemort's horcruxes, and she needed to save everyone. She bit back her tears.

The boy regarded her silently. "I don't know it. All I know is that yesterday I turned seven."

"Alright, okay. How about—where are we? In what town do you live?"

"London." He answered quietly. "Now can you tell me how you did it?"

Hermione nodded and immediately she felt the air around her relax. Sure enough, she regained control of her body again and beckoned him closer. There was no harm, she figured, in allowing a magical child to watch her draw her runes and vanish. After all, as soon as she passed through the portal, there would be no trace of her ever being there. She pulled out her wand and began to draw the symbols, mumbling the incantation as she did so. Before drawing the final rune, however, she looked up at his fascinated face and smiled. "Would you like to see?" He nodded and clambered out of bed to kneel outside of the circle she drew.

Suddenly, there came the sound of footsteps from down the hall. "Tom Riddle, I told you to go to bed hours ago!" Called an irate voice.

Hermione's eyes widened at the familiar name and she nearly fell over as she put two and two together. The boy in front of her was a young Voldemort. With a shaking hand, she quickly drew the last rune and, with fear seizing her heart, climbed through the portal just in time to avoid being seen by a furious Mrs. Cole.


	3. Chapter 3

**Of Roses and Thorns**

**Chapter 2**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim.**

* * *

><p><strong>May 2, 1998<strong>

Ron couldn't breathe. He didn't know if it was the air in the Great Hall, the sight of his brother's lifeless body, or the sobbing everyone was doing, but he had to get out of there. Everyone seemed content to cry and clean and wait for Voldemort to show up and kill the rest of them off, but he bloody hell wasn't. He didn't get it. He wanted to cry too, didn't anyone realize that? But he couldn't because he's Ron Weasley, best friend to the famous Harry Chosen One Potter and Hermione Brightest Witch of Their Generation Granger. What did he have to claim to his name in the end? A few lucky saves as Keeper in Quidditch? Won-Won, Lav-Lav's ex-boyfriend? He had nothing. He didn't save the bloody world every day like Harry seemed to do, he was just...what was he? He sighed, resigned. He was just another Weasley.

He collapsed onto the ground, his eyes glued to his dead brother and his sobbing mother. Fred. His eyes moved to George, wondering what was going through his mind. George's hand was clamped over his mouth, his eyes opening and shutting over and over, as if in disbelief. He seemed to be moving in slow motion. In fact, Ron discovered, everyone was moving slower than usual. And what was that ringing noise? He barely registered Ginny falling into his arms and crying. He made no move to put an arm around her.

Fred was dead. And so were tons of other people, Ron knew, but all he could understand was that Fred was dead.

The ringing left his ears and he looked down at Ginny wetting his shirt with her tears. He put a hand up to her head and patted her awkwardly. "Shh, Gin. You know how Fred gets when you cry." He didn't know what had possessed him to say that, but it seemed to make everything a hundred times worse. He couldn't get anything right, could he? Ginny sobbed even harder into his shirt and even Percy seemed to crumble at Ron's words. Ron watched as his prat of a brother sank down to his knees and began to sob. They had never been close, so the wrenching in his heart he felt for his brother surprised him.

"It should have been me!" Percy ground out. "It was my fault, it should have been me!"

"No, Percy, don't-" His mum began, but was interrupted by Ginny's scream.

Ron hadn't noticed that Gin had even stood. "You're damn right it should have been you, you horrible, pathetic excuse of a human!" She was shrill and everyone in the Hall had fallen silent at her words, but no one made a move to stop her. Ron looked up at his dad, who had his head down, his eyes on his fallen son. Ron knew his father wouldn't say a word. Ron wondered if he'd ever speak again. Gin pushed on, ignoring that her once proud older brother was sobbing at her feet. "You left us, Percy! You publicly disowned us!_ Fred_ was with us the entire time! _Fred_ loved us!"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" Percy was begging, his hands wrapped around his sister's ankles. Ron felt sick. This was wrong. This was all wrong.

"NO!" Ginny screamed shrilly, "No, you do not get to say sorry as if it would make a difference! You deserve to d-"

"Ginny!" Ron shouted, turning her around and staring her in the eyes. She avoided his gaze, tears streaming down her face. "Don't, Gin, you know you don't mean any of that."

She gave him her best glare. If Ron were a lesser man, he would have flinched. "Don't you dare take his side, Ronald! He left us! We needed him and he left us! Where was he when you and Harry were trying to save me from the Chamber, hm? Where was he when Harry saw Voldemort after the tournament and no one would believe that he was back, even after Cedric had been killed? Where the fuck was he when we were nearly killed by Death Eaters at the Ministry? Where-"

"GIN!" Ron roared, furious.

Ginny was not intimidated, however. Everyone was staring at this point. The only other sound in the Hall was the sound of Percy weeping at their feet. "What, Ron? Are you going to deny it? That while he was off kissing Ministry arse, everyone in this family was sacrificing everything they had in order for a better world?" Her tone was taking an ugly, sarcastic tone that caused Ron to flinch. Where had his baby sister gone? Where was his annoying, nosy, noisy baby sister? "He doesn't get to show up out of nowhere one day and suddenly everything's peachy keen! He abandoned us, his family, Ron!" She was crying again and her words were difficult to understand. "Fred is dead, Ron. Fred is dead and as far as I'm concerned, Percy is too."

Ron could barely contain his own tears. But he was Ron Weasley and while the world didn't need him, he knew his family did. He shook his head at his baby sister and pulled her into his arms. "Gin, we're a family. We're not perfect, and we've all made mistakes, but at the end of the day, we're a family. We're all we have and we've never needed anything more, you know?" Ron was never really good at feelings, and Hermione once said he had the emotional range of a teaspoon, but he squashed those thoughts and pressed on. "We've all done things for what we thought was for the best, Gin. It is not Percy's fault that Fred isn't with us anymore. Nor is it yours or mine or anyone else's. It's...we'll be okay, Gin. My point..." Ron struggled to find the words that would fix his baby sister's heart. "My point is that we're all we've got and no matter what anyone in this family does, we're still a family and we love each other." He pulled back and looked his baby sister in the eye as tears continued to stream down her cheeks. "If we're going to get through this war-" He looked around at the rest of his family, his backbone, the best thing he's got. "If we're going to get through this, we're going to get through it together. All of us. As a family."

It was in that moment, as his sister continued to cry into his shoulder and his mum shot him a grateful smile and his brother George slipped a hand into his, that Ron realized that how true those words were. He didn't need to be the savior of the wizarding world or a million N.E.W.T.S. All he needed was his family. In that moment, he was never more proud to be "just another Weasley".

* * *

><p><strong>November 16, 1936<strong>

When Hermione had first laid eyes on Harry Potter, she didn't think he was anything special. No, there was absolutely nothing remarkable about the 11 year old boy, other than his scar, but you couldn't really see it under all that unruly hair. Of course she had heard about all of the hubbub over him; she devoured all the books on wizarding history and life she could get her hands on the week following her acceptance to Hogwarts. Looking at him from across the platform of 9 3/4, he didn't strike her as the savior of the wizarding world type. But what did she know? She had just been plain old Hermione Granger, daughter of two dentists, bookworm, and friendless loser.

She kept her eye on Harry Potter, however, determined to figure out what about him was so special. In classes he didn't seem to be particularly powerful. In fact, Hermione had thought smugly, she had been better than him in all of their classes! Of course she tried to help him and Ron, his friend, but they were so mean about all her nice little tips. She really shouldn't have bothered. But then she had gotten herself mixed up with that troll and Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, of all people, had stepped in to save her. She thought they hated her, that they wouldn't care if she vanished after all of the horrid things they had said about her, but as she watched Ron and Harry attempt to battle the troll for her-_for her-_she realized what it was that made Harry and Ron so special. It was the same thing that the rest of the world had seen, what Professor Snape had detested, and what made Hermione realize there was more to being a hero than flashy capes and a nifty catchphrase: it was being brave to the point of stupidity and putting the greater good above oneself.

Harry had been putting everyone above himself for years. He's never been properly taken care of, a fact that made Hermione's heart ache each time she thought about it. Those days were done, however, because Hermione Granger was capable, she was brave, and she was going to fix everything. She would keep Fred from dying, she would keep Harry's parents alive to properly love him, and everyone would have the lives they deserved.

"I know you." She heard from the direction of the other side of the room. Her head snapped up, breaking her from her reverie. Hermione was quick to recognize the dusty floor and the sight of the boy eying her was enough testament to her second failed attempt to get to the correct time. She internally cursed and resisted the urge to pound the floor in frustration. "I thought I had dreamed you." The young Tom Riddle Jr. continued, ignorant to the battle the young woman was waging in her head. "But of course I didn't. I don't dream."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione sniffed, feigning calm. She toyed with the idea of obliviating him, or perhaps even killing him. They stared at each other in silent assessment. Did Hermione have it in her to kill a young Lord Voldemort? She struggled to even her breathing. The thought of killing a child, regardless of the child's potential, didn't sit well with her. No, stopping Dumbledore from bringing Tom to Hogwarts will be the best course of action. It was best to avoid as much death as possible.

Almost as if he read her mind, he spoke again. "I felt a connection to you the last time you came. At first I thought it was because you were my mum, but that can't possibly be true now that I think about it; you're very young." He smiled at her and Hermione felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. "It's because you're special, like me. The other kids," His voice became rough and she suddenly felt on edge. Would he freeze her again, like the last time? "The other kids tease me and taunt me and tell stories about me, but I know better. I know it's because they're scared of me. I can make them hurt." He whispered. His eyes bored into her skull. "And if you leave me again, I'll make you hurt too."

Having had enough, Hermione gritted her teeth and casted a non-verbal stunner at him. Working quickly, she casted her runes. As she drew her last rune, she felt the magical energy in the room shift. Her head snapped up as she realized with sinking horror that the child before her had broken her stunner with nothing more than a shrug of his shoulders. What _was_ he?

Fear and apprehension messing with her focus, she threw herself through her portal without another glance at the silent boy she should have killed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Of Roses and Thorns**

**Chapter Four**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim.**

* * *

><p><strong>September 30, 1943<strong>

Albus Dumbledore was a wise man. Naturally he refrained from saying so aloud (he was _Albus Dumbledore _for Merlin's sake and people liked a humble man), but it often pleased him to roam the darkened and silent halls of Hogwarts pondering his own wisdom. He often saw himself as a puppeteer and the world was his stage. It was his burden. He sighed sadly as he ascended the stairs to the fourth floor. Wisdom like his only came from years and years of mistakes. Was that really such a good thing then, if the only way to gain the wisdom he had was to learn it all the hard way? Albus' losses, his heartbreak, and all that had been destroyed in his life had taught him plenty. It was this that often caused him to wonder how truly wonderful his life could be if only he were more naive or ignorant. _Oh Gellert_, he thought. Upset with the sudden turn his thoughts took, Albus conjured a blackboard mid-step; every stray thought in his head was transcribed onto its surface before he promptly erased them all. He smiled to himself, his mind cleared.

Thoroughly enjoying the peace brought to him upon the clearing of his mind, Albus found himself jumping a foot into the air when a cacophony of slams, clangs, and crashes sounded ahead of him.

He rushed up the rest of the staircase, ignoring the protests of pain made by the hip Gellert had very nearly destroyed the last time they had seen each other. Albus sighed in annoyance at his mind's inappropriate timing. Surely there was a time and a place to think about Gellert. At the sight of the scene before him, Albus decided that this was not it. There, amidst fallen suits of armor, swords, and a tacky decorative tapestry that once hung on the wall, was a bleeding and unconscious young woman.

Albus turned to the whispering portraits behind him. "Good evening, ladies. Would you mind telling me from where this girl came?" The portrait of affluent witches—three of them, wearing the lavish wizarding fashion of the late 1800s—continued whispering to themselves before one of them broke away from the huddle to speak with him.

"We cannot tell you much, we're afraid. We were asleep, you see, when that common wench woke us with her landing among the armor."

"She fell from somewhere?" His eyes immediately went up to the ceiling, searching for a hole or opening of some sort.

The painted lady shook her dainty head. "Oh no, it was more as if she were thrown." She pointed to the left where, true to her word, it appeared that the mysterious girl had been thrown by a large hand and had encountered several suits of armor before coming to a final stop.

"Thank you." Albus bowed his head in gratitude at the painting before turning his attention back to the girl. Ignoring her strange attire and careful to not injure her further, Albus levitated the girl with a flick of his wand and turned towards his office. "Let's get you figured out, shall we?"

As Albus walked slowly through the dim halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with a heavily injured girl levitating alongside him, his thoughts strayed back to Gellert Grindelwald.

* * *

><p><strong>May 2, 1998<strong>

Harry Potter wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and stay there, safely ensconced inside the late Albus Dumbledore's office. What he didn't want was this responsibility he felt to protect the world. He allowed himself to cry some.

Harry wanted to punch something. Magic was supposed to be just that: magical. He didn't want to have to take down a mad tyrant on a quest for power, he didn't want people dying, and he certainly didn't want this war. All he wanted was to sit in the Great Hall, eat a treacle tart, maybe have some pudding, perhaps start a food fight like he saw once in a muggle movie when his uncle, aunt, and cousin weren't home. Or maybe he wanted to go for a fly on his broom. Perhaps he'd challenge Ron to a game of chess. He'd lose of course; Ron was brilliant at chess, a skill Harry often thanked Merlin he possessed as it was that very eye for strategy that had saved their lives in their first year. Harry cried some more, feeling all too young to be looking death in the eye.

Hagrid taking him away all those years ago had been his saving grace. Finally, after years of abuse and neglect and resentment, he was special, magical, and most importantly, he was loved. His horrible family's hatred couldn't touch him-not then and not anymore. Leaving with Hagrid had been so liberating; he'd never felt such exhilaration. Though he hadn't known Hagrid long at that point, the half-giant had made him feel valued. For the first time in his life, _someone_ loved _him._ Harry had gathered his few belongings, plunged headfirst into the world of magic, and never once looked back.

Soon, it wasn't just Hagrid that loved him, but Hermione and Ron too. Then Sirius loved him and Dumbledore and McGonagall. The Weasleys loved him and Lupin did and then Ginny—strong, beautiful Ginny—loved him. His chest gave a little twist. All these people who loved him and were loved by him were in danger.

And all because of him.

He couldn't really understand why he was curled up on the floor of the Headmaster's office, but he understood that he was mourning. It was as if he couldn't really decide what he was mourning. Perhaps it was Snape's life he was mourning. He was filled with this sadness. It was almost suffocating.

"Harry, my boy, come and sit."

Albus Dumbledore's voice pulled Harry out of his thoughts and, obediently, Harry stood and sat in the chair facing Dumblefore's portrait.

Dumbledore's painted face smiled warmly at him. Even as a painting, his eyes twinkled. Harry felt defeated. "Hullo, Professor." He greeted hoarsely.

"What is the matter?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry sighed. "Everything, sir. Snape's life is the matter. The war is the matter. People living and people dying and people fighting to decide who does or doesn't is the matter." He pulled his glasses off and wiped them on his filthy shirt. When was the last time he had been clean? Judging by the smears on his glasses, it had been far too long.

Dumbledore nodded in understanding. "You know everything now."

Their eyes met and Harry nodded. "Neither can live while the other survives. It makes perfect sense, but not in the way I thought it would." Dumbledore nodded proudly. "I'm going to die tonight, Professor."

The dead man smiled serenely at him. "You always have a choice, my boy. Do not forget that." Dumbledore gave a small sigh and smiled at him. Harry thought the man looked brave. "One thing I've learned in my life is that one never truly lives for himself. There are people you love to protect, to please, to cherish; there are enemies to defeat and thwart; and there are innocent lives to defend. You have always been so brave, Harry. You are made up of the greatest traits of your parents. They are so proud of you, never doubt this fact."

Harry could barely refrain from screaming at the portrait. But he knew it would not do to scream at a painting. "But it's all for nothing, isn't it? Their deaths? My mother's sacrifice? I'm going to willingly die tonight."

"You know deep in your heart that this is something you are choosing because you are a noble man, you are a good man, and you care far more about this magical world that has both loved and then hated you than to truly abandon it." Dumbledore smiled. "We all have made our own sacrifices and it has all been for the greater good, Harry. It is unfair and cruel to ask this of you, but it has to be. I am truly sorry for everything that has happened, for everything that will happen, and for all that I have failed you."

"I suppose-" Harry's voice cracked as emotion nearly got the best of him. Dumbledore was right of course; he was always right. Harry loved the world that had saved him, that had taken him in and had given him such happiness. He would give anything for the Wizarding world, even if it meant that he had to give his life. In that instant, he thought of Snape's life-long sacrifices, of Dumbledore's death, of his parents and his mother's love, of Ron and Hermione, and he _knew_. He cleared his throat. "I suppose it's time to finally meet my parents then, Professor."

Dumbledore gave him a watery smile. "I am so proud of you, my boy. You are truly a better man than I have ever been."

Harry Potter stood, ran a tired hand through his messy hair, and gave him a nod. "Goodbye, Professor." He turned and headed for the door.

Albus Dumbledore's portrait stared at the space his protégé had occupied only moments before. "I will see you soon, Harry Potter."

* * *

><p><strong>September 30, 1943<strong>

Albus Dumbledore assessed the unconscious girl lying on a bed he had transfigured from a chair. He had checked her earlier for any major injuries, but had found no recent ones aside from the head injury she received upon landing. He had quelled the bleeding and had healed it to the best of his ability, but he could not escape the niggling feeling that there was something he was overlooking. The girl had a number of old injuries that were rather sloppily healed, but nothing so awful it would affect the rest of her life. So why did he feel so uneasy?

Shaking off his paranoia, he twirled his wand in his fingers, deciding to find out who this girl was and where she came from. He should wake her and ask, but there were less complications in exploring her mind as she recuperated. There was no harm in that, was there? His wand aimed at the space between her eyes, Albus entered her mind.

The thing with the mind was that it typically lacked any form of tangible organization. In fact, the mind couldn't even begin to understand its own complexity. In order to function, thoughts, ideas, feelings, and memories were organized in a way the conscious mind could understand. For example, he once entered the mind of a witch whose mind was set up to resemble Diagon Alley. He had a field day in her mind, entering the various shops and enjoying the memories and thoughts stored within each. Naturally her most precious of thoughts were squirreled away in her mind's Gringott's, which he found he was unable to enter.

This young woman's mind, to his delight, was a library. There was an innumerable amount of books lining the shelves. He was dying to explore what memories she stored in the Restricted Section of her mind's library, but refrained from doing so. After all, he had a purpose here. Instead, he approached a middle shelf at random. He pulled out a book and examined the cover. Hogwarts, A History, it read. Opening the book and flipping through the pages revealed that it was indeed an accurate copy of one of his favorite books. He replaced it on the shelf and pulled out another book. Upon opening, he watched as a memory played itself out on the otherwise blank page. In it were a red headed boy and a black haired boy were playing a rather riveting game of Wizard's Chess in the Gryffindor common room. Without a word, the red headed boy's Red Queen took a White Knight and his opponent groaned in dismay. He turned his green eyes towards Albus and shook his head sadly. "There's no winning against him, Hermione." Albus shut the book and placed it back gently on the shelf.

The girl's name was Hermione and judging by the memory he had seen, she was a Gryffindor. But he didn't recall ever seeing her or her two chess playing friends. Being deputy headmaster, he prized himself on being on familiar terms with all of Hogwarts' students. Frowning, he took a book from the highest shelf. The memory this book showed him nearly floored him. There he was, obscenely ancient and he was Headmaster! "Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak!" His older-self declared proudly. The attention of the memory then left the sight of the older Albus and turned instead to the assortment of food on the table. Dazed, Albus shut the book and shakily returned it. He didn't know which was more bizarre: the sight of his older self or the meaningless string of words he had uttered to hundreds of students. Does he go mad in the future? Does all his wisdom turn on him and drive him off his rocker? Abus shivered.

He quickly pulled out of her mind and stared at the poor girl before him. Somehow she had managed to travel back in time. It was the only logical explanation for her strange clothes and the contents of her memories. He was floored. Albus was a great wizard, this he knew, but even he had not managed to escape the confines of time. Yet this young woman had managed to cross vast oceans of time intact. He needed answers and, knowing it would be far more simpler to ask the girl herself of her circumstances than to comb her mind, he trained his wand on her yet again. "Rennervate!"

Hermione's eyes shot open and she took a gasping breath. She sat up quickly and Albus noted smugly that she displayed no dizziness or other ill effects from her head injury. He was certainly a very capable healer. Perhaps he might consider applying to St. Mungo's. Before he could really expand on this thought or begin wondering who he would use as a reference for his Healer application, he noticed her rather dazed and confused expression. She looked around his rather small-ish office before her gaze landed on him. He noticed that she did not relax. In fact, she looked like she was prepared to run at any moment.

"Where am I?" She asked him, her tone laced with fear. Albus wondered at that; if she had known him from the future, then surely she'd recognize him! Though he had to admit that, at the young age of 62, she couldn't possibly believe he could be the same old geezer from her memories. Albus preened a little and hoped she wouldn't notice.

Albus smiled kindly at her. "My dear, you are in my office in Hogwarts. You suffered from a terrible fall, but you'll be alright. I've healed all of your injuries."

She looked down at her body before looking at him again. "Oh. Thank you, sir." She looked around the room, still obviously confused. There was a flicker of recognition in her eyes at the mention of Hogwarts, but not much else.

"Now, could you please tell me how you came to be here?" He stepped closer, eager to an answer. "What spell did you use? Did you somehow manage to Apparate?"

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. "You can't Apparate within Hogwarts."

Albus smiled, recalling her love of Hogwarts, A History. He was going to get along splendidly with this young woman. "Ah, yes. So a spell then?"

"Spell?"

"Yes, my dear. I am aware that you are not from here, but what I am not aware of is what method you used to travel to this time and why."

She shook her head. "Travel? I...don't-" She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I…I don't know what you're talking about."

Apprehension suddenly filled his mind as he stared at the distressed girl before him. "My dear, do you remember anything?"

Horror was evident in her eyes as she opened her mouth and said, "No…not a thing."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** As far as this story is concerned, time-turners have yet to be developed by the Ministry or if they have, they cannot travel further back than a few hours. Also, I'm so sorry this took so long to get out! It's been a crazy month on my end, but I promise my updates will become more regular once the semester's over (just one more week!). The hops between the different times can get a little confusing, especially with this rather Dumbledore-centric chapter, but each perspective and the events that take place in both times are crucial to the story.

As always, thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, and favorited this story!


	5. Chapter 5

**Of Roses and Thorns**

**Chapter 5**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim.**

* * *

><p><strong>September 30, 1943<strong>

"What do you remember?" Albus asked, fearing the worst. He wasn't sure he could handle hearing her answer. Albus, while admittedly a great wizard, was certainly no Merlin. Was her memory loss his doing? Did his intrusion into her mind cause the amnesia? "Do you remember anything at all? About yourself, about Hogwarts?"

"I.." Hermione trailed off, looking over his shoulder blankly. "Hogwarts is hidden to Muggles. If a Muggle looks at it, they see an old ruin with a sign saying: Danger, do not enter, unsafe." She looked up at him, confusion marring her otherwise pretty features. "I don't know how I know that. Is it important to know?"

Albus let out a sigh. She had recited a fact from _Hogwarts, A History _verbatim. He knew something had gone wrong while he had been in her mind. Perhaps they could recover her memories a different way. He summoned his pensieve from where it sat next to his desk and levitated it between them. "This," He explained patiently to the bewildered girl before him. "Is a pensieve. It allows me to place a memory inside and view it as many times as I'd like."

Hermione smiled, recognition lighting up her features. "Oh, kind of like a telly!"

Albus did not know what a telly was nor did he really care. There were far more pressing matters at hand. "Er…yes, exactly. What I'm going to do is take a memory from your mind and place it inside my pensieve, and then we'll go from there. We'll have you figured out yet!" He smiled in what he hoped was a comforting manner, but the girl was no longer paying him any attention. She was enthralled with the swirls and movements made by the memories already inside of the pensieve. Albus watched as her fingers inched closer and closer to the liquid, moving slowly, almost—

"STOP!" Albus grabbed her hand and pulled it away from the liquid. "You might be sucked into the wrong memories, my dear." She looked at him with fear in her eyes, but nevertheless murmured a soft apology and kept her eyes trained on her lap. He took her hands and smiled at her. "Do not worry, child, all is well. It is only for your safety and that of my secrets that I had to stop you." She nodded her understanding. "Now, let's get you sorted out, shall we?"

Hermione smiled and tried to not be afraid as his wand pressed itself to the crown of her head.

* * *

><p><strong>September 30, 1943 – Slytherin Common Room, Hours Earlier<strong>

Tom Marvolo Riddle was, in his humble opinion, the most powerful wizard to have ever lived. As he reclined on his favorite chaise lounge in the Slytherin common room, he couldn't help but revel a bit his glory. He deserved it, after all. His plans post-Hogwarts were coming together, the success that was his summer still gave him immense pleasure to think of, and his followers were steadily growing in number. He almost smiled. Slytherins were an ambitious lot and their pure-blood ideologies made them the easiest to persuade, but he had quite a few followers in other houses as well. Of course there weren't nearly as many Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff devotees as there were in Slytherin house, but there were enough to satisfy the future Dark Lord. Tom Riddle was no fool; he knew that in the end, Hufflepuff loyalty and Ravenclaw wit were far more precious weapons in his war than Slytherin ambition.

Speaking of which…

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Abraxas Malfoy give him some sort of ugly, sullen look. The fool thought he couldn't see him! Tom suppressed a sigh—barely. With the good came the bad, he supposed. He couldn't help but allow himself to smirk. Malfoy's thinly veiled envy was annoying, but not at all unfounded. Tom did lead an enviable life. The professors loved him (with the exception of one particular Transfiguration professor, but Tom knew Dumbledore didn't pose much of a threat), all the students from every house either loved him or feared him, and his power surpassed those of anyone in his year.

Across from him, a leggy blonde blinked her pretty green eyes at him and mouthed that she had a great time with him last night. Tom suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He had no idea who she was and he knew for a fact they had done absolutely nothing worth enjoying the night before. He had been trying to read when she crawled onto his lap and began to assault his neck with her tongue. He let her have her way for a bit before easing her off and going to bed without a single word to the girl.

He visibly shivered at the memory. He hated to be touched without his permission.

It wasn't that Tom didn't like women. On the contrary, he rather loved women. He enjoyed looking at them and their skin was far softer than any lad's. Unfortunately, that was about as much value as he saw in the fairer sex. It was a pity they couldn't all be as intelligent and ruthless as Walburga Black. The rest were, to his disgust, much like the girl from last night.

Tom was already bored with the turn his thoughts had taken.

He turned his attention yet again to Malfoy. The blond, too preoccupied with giving him an ugly look, did not turn away in time to avoid being caught. "I don't know how often I have to tell you, Malfoy, but this is the very last time." Tom drawled lazily. Every ear in the common room perked up at the sound of his voice, though they were all careful to seem as if they weren't paying any attention. Tom smiled, satisfied with the reddening cheeks of the otherwise pale blond. "I am not a homosexual and I will never reciprocate your love for me." Tom turned away from the look of outrage and embarrassment on the other boy's face and smiled at Terrel Nott as if they were both part of the same little joke. The pleasure on Nott's face at the attention nearly made him sick.

Meanwhile, Malfoy continued to sputter. Tom cocked his head and regarded the indignant blond silently. Perhaps he had hit a nerve there. Was Malfoy truly in love with him? He wouldn't be surprised if that turned out to be true; he was a rather handsome man and he certainly had more charm, power, and intelligence in his pinky than any of the other males in his house. If Tom were so inclined, Malfoy, with all his connections and wealth, would make a rather advantageous match. That is, if Tom could overlook the permanent sneer on the boy's face and his rather foul temperament in favor of his vast fortune.

"I'm not—I'm—you…" Malfoy's face, as red as the Gryffindor crest, was screwed up in disgust. No, Tom decided, he could never find it in him to look favorably upon _that _face. Not to mention the boy had trouble grasping the English language and had the intelligence of a hippogriff. He simply would not do. Tom sighed.

No one was good enough for him. He looked around the common room at the youths all lounged casually, as if they _weren't _prepared to jump off a cliff should he even say the word. They were all just so…beneath him.

Alas, he was the most powerful wizard to have ever lived. It was the lonely fate to which he had long ago resigned himself.

He sighed again.

* * *

><p><strong>October 1, 1943<strong>

Tom woke up with a feeling of dread. Then again, when had he ever woken up on a Friday feeling otherwise? He sat up in his four poster, wondering if it were at all possible to skip Dumbledore's transfiguration class. Before he could decide, however, a booming voice broke his train of thought.

"Good morning, Tom!" Tom cringed as Cygnus Black slung an arm over his shoulders. "Listen, mate, I know this is a lot to ask of you, considering it's the same thing I've asked the past two weeks, but could you study just a _little_ bit longer tonight? I mean, longer than you usually do. Druella's coming over and I think tonight's the night I'm going to ask her to go with me. I think I'm finally ready to go steady. Plus Mum's been on my case about wooing the bird so we can marry right after Hogwarts, but who cares about that." Cygnus waved his free hand in the air dismissively, as if marriage and spending the rest of his life with his witch (and Tom meant that in the most insulting way possible) were only a minor detail. "She's going to be so pleased, I might actually get to third base and I know you wouldn't want to walk in on that!"

Tom's lip curled in disgust, though not at all surprised. Cygnus Black never was capable of thinking with the head he had on his shoulders. "Cygnus, I do not need to know about your relations with Miss Rosier." Tom stood from his bed, dusting off his pyjamas as he did so. "As it is, I have two essays due next week and it would be in my best interests to finish those essays now rather than later. However I will return promptly at midnight."

Cygnus smirked at him. "You're upset with me." It wasn't a question. Tom pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he did so. He found that doing so often alleviated some of the headache brought on by his rather irksome friend. He picked up his shirt and began to put it on, pointedly not giving a reply. Cygnus chuckled. "You are!" Tom gave him a look, which Cygnus returned mockingly.

"I am not." Tom insisted, putting on his tie. He took a moment, checking it was straight and properly tied. He took pride on his rather neat appearance and went to great lengths to make sure he looked impeccable at all times-a stark contrast to the cad lounging on his bed. "I'm rather pleased your relationship with Druella is getting so serious and that marriage is in your future. You need someone sensible to curb your rakish ways, though I can't imagine her brother would be too pleased to hear about this development in your relationship." Cygnus guffawed at that.

"I'd like to see that pup try to do a thing about me and Dru!" He declared, jumping up and off of Tom's bed. "Hurry and finish coiffing your hair, Tom, else we'll miss breakfast!" He tossed Tom's comb at him and practically ran towards the door. Tom combed his hair, deciding in that moment that he wouldn't remind Cygnus that one normally wore pants and shoes when going to breakfast.

Later that day, Tom found himself standing outside of his last class, extremely reluctant to enter. It wasn't that he wasn't good at transfiguration—in fact, he was quite adept at it—it was that Dumbledore refused to treat him with the same admiration and appreciation the other professors often freely bestowed on him. Tom was not _just another student_ and to be treated as if he were infuriated him. As Tom continued to battle between attending class and playing hooky, a gaggle of Hufflepuff girls walked past, giving him eyes and giggling behind their books. Tom gave them a small smile and greeted them hello as they entered the Transfiguration classroom. Preparing himself for the longest class of his life, he followed them inside and took his regular seat at the back of the room between Cygnus and Orion Black. He rested his chin on his palm and prepared for yet another mind-blowingly awful class with their twat of a professor, Dumbledore.

To his immense surprise (and relief), Professor Dumbledore did not show up for their lessons. Instead, a clearly agitated Headmaster Dippet rushed in and announced that class was cancelled for the day. He gave no explanation but Tom suspected that of all the students in the room, he was the only one curious as to Dumbledore's whereabouts. Perhaps they found evidence of—Tom shook the thought from his head and stood from his desk. He tried to quell his paranoia and focused his attention instead on the Gaunt family ring resting on his finger. He smirked, admiring the Peverell coat of arms and was once again reminded of his immense power and rather satisfying summer. He turned then and, with Orion and Cygnus flanking him, left the room and headed for the dungeons.

"Thank Merlin, I am in no state of mind to be learning today." Orion grumbled. Cygnus chuckled and threw an arm around his cousin.

"I wouldn't be so relieved, Cousin. Quidditch practice was cancelled today. His Head Boy Prickness Rosier gave his bollocks over to his new girlfriend and they're off celebrating their one week anniversary." Cygnus wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Let me tell you, if Dru ever tried to get me to skip practice so we can drink pink tea and rub noses like girls often like to do, I'd _Avada_ myself."

Orion frowned. "No one told me practice was cancelled!"

"Learn to read, will you? Rosier sent out notices during breakfast."

Tom let out a wry chuckle. "He barely noticed his food this morning. He was too preoccupied rubbing off at the sight of that Ravenclaw girl." At this, Orion colored and made a noise of protest and Cygnus burst into laughter.

"You're disgusting, you know that?" Cygnus continued to laugh, rubbing invisible tears out of the corners of his eyes as he did so. Tom refrained from joining in, his mind elsewhere.

Where was Albus Dumbledore and what could possibly possess him to miss teaching his class? It was uncharacteristic of him and Tom was going crazy wondering what it was that had their professor so otherwise preoccupied. Perhaps the old bat had been battling Grindelwald that morning and had died. He certainly hoped so.

* * *

><p><strong>October 1, 1943 – Albus Dumbledore's Office<strong>

"I'm afraid." Hermione confessed. Uncle Albus, as he had insisted she call him, smiled at her kindly. He took her hands in his and gave them a squeeze. "Are you sure this is alright?"

"My dear, you will be perfectly alright." Hermione felt herself relax at his words. Uncle Albus continued. "It is the safest course of action and will make your transition easier."

Hermione had to give him that. From what he had managed to tell her, he was a respected member of society and she would have an easier time making friends if she had the Dumbledore name on her side. Granted, she still wasn't so sure what was going on, but Uncle Albus had promised to find a way to retrieve her memories and he didn't seem like the type of man to go back on his word. She was frustrated at the lack of information they managed to glean from the broken and fragmented memories taken from her mind. They got a word here, a fuzzy image there, but nothing coherent or useful in the slightest. Hermione inhaled and exhaled deeply, remembering the relaxation technique he had taught her earlier. "Could you tell me again? Please? I'd like to be as prepared as possible."

Uncle Albus chuckled and smiled affectionately at her. He released her hands and turned to his desk, retrieving the stick he had said was hers. Hermione knew what magic was, knew that she had the power to harness it, but could not for the life of her recall how to use her wand. As she palmed the wood, she couldn't help but feel as if something were off with it. It didn't feel like hers, but of course her memory was gone so perhaps the wand would feel more hers once her memory was back. Though muscle memory should have given her some feeling of familiarity…

"Be careful with your wand, Hermione. I know many a witch and wizard to blast a body part off by mishandling such a sensitive instrument." Hermione blushed and immediately ceased twiddling with the stick. "Now, I'm sure you've prepared enough, so don't be so concerned. You are my niece who, prior to attending Hogwarts, was homeschooled. It was at my insistence that you attend Hogwarts. The Headmaster will introduce you at dinner and that is when you will be sorted into a house. Do you recall what the four are?"

"Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor." Hermione breathed the names of the four houses almost reverently. "After sorting, I'm to sit with my house and then the head of house will guide me from there."

The older man smiled at her. "Ah, you should have more faith in yourself, Hermione. You're as ready as you'll ever be. Now, did you decide on your age?" Hermione frowned and stared at her hands. She could not for the life of her recall any details about herself, her age being one of those lost to her. After slipping into a Hogwarts uniform earlier, she had regarded herself in the mirror for almost ten minutes, wondering how old she was. She looked about 19, but she couldn't be so sure. Was there a spell that told you? Her last thought was out loud and Uncle Albus chuckled. "No, I'm afraid I'm not aware of any. How would you like to decide later on? After all, we have three hours until dinner and I'd very much like to try the pensieve again if that's alright with you."

Hermione worried her bottom lip, knowing that any further attempts with the pensieve would only result in failure. Nevertheless, she acquiesced. "Yes, Uncle Albus."

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I've changed ages of certain characters to better suit my needs for this story, but don't worry, Hermione and Tom are their canon ages at the time(s) this story takes place.

Hermione's memory recall at this point is very selective. Any knowledge she may possess comes straight out of _Hogwarts, A History_. Muscle memory isn't necessarily conscious, however, so she will have the ability to cast spells, though keep in mind the wand she's using is Bellatrix's wand and will hinder her performance slightly.

Thank you again for reading, favoriting, adding this to your alerts, and for reviewing! Y'all are the best!


	6. Chapter 6

**Of Roses and Thorns**

**Chapter 6**

**Disclaimer: I disclaim.**

* * *

><p><strong>October 1, 1943<strong>

"I think I'm in my 6th year." Hermione mumbled, her fingers nervously clenching and unclenching. Interest piqued, Albus—Uncle Albus now, she supposed—stopped walking and turned to her, the desire to be on time for dinner pushed to the back of his mind.

"You remember something?" His voice was meant to be controlled, Hermione could tell, but he was so invested in her well-being now that he could not quell the slight strain in his voice. This, for some reason she couldn't yet explain, brought her immense comfort. Whoever she used to be, she trusted Dumbledore with her life.

She bit her lip, unsure of how to go about explaining her "gut-feeling". It wasn't that Hermione remembered her life prior to the moment she awoke in his office, but she did _just know _certain things. Just like she knew how to breathe air, blink, and speak, certain feelings and beliefs came to her just as naturally. This was one of those things. "No, I don't have any memories that tell me anything, but I _just know _that I've never had my 7th year. I can't even begin to explain it. My heart gives this sad little twist every time I try to think about it…" She trailed off, suddenly concerned. What had happened to her that made her emotions react so strongly to the mere thought of a final year of Hogwarts? Perhaps her forgotten self was merely reluctant to leave the school? She knew so many facts about Hogwarts, knew the school inside out, and certainly felt like she loved the great castle. Hermione, for the sake of her sanity and the well-being of her forgotten self, hoped that was the case.

Uncle Albus' eyes twinkled merrily as they were often wont to do. "My dear, I should certainly hope that of all the creatures in this world, you trust yourself the most. If your heart says it's so, then it must! Now, let's hurry before we're late to dinner; Headmaster Dippet does work himself into a tizzy when it comes to tardiness." Smiling up at the man, Hermione nodded and they continued on their way along one of the many hallways of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

><p>Tom was not in the best of moods. He was put out with how angry he was, considering how swimmingly the past first month of school had gone. That he wasn't happy only added fuel to the fire. After all, he was healthy, powerful, beautiful, and if all that furious scribbling he did in his journal all time amounted to anything, it would only go up from there. So why was he so angry?<p>

Don't ask Tom, he couldn't tell you even if he were so inclined. This of course only incensed him further.

Next to him, Walburga Black sent him a wary look. "Your foul disposition is giving me a migraine."

"What shall I do for it, Miss Black? Will you have me move seats so I don't cloud up the aura of this portion of the table? Shall I switch schools?" Tom was not normally one to speak before thinking, but his patience was worn so thin nothing could be done for it. "I am not in a particularly blithe mood, Miss Black. I advise you to take care you don't contribute to the foulness of my disposition."

Walburga, though unaccustomed to being snapped at by Tom Riddle, merely blinked to indicate her displease at being addressed in such a manner. Nevertheless, she remained silent and focused her attention to the front of the room. Her relationship with Tom had always been a rather good one; they found in each other a worthwhile ally and more or less intellectual equals (though Tom was always mindful that while she was better than him in blood-status, he was the superior for he was a male, the heir of Slytherin, and the most powerful wizard to have ever lived), but she did have an awful habit of forgetting herself and making rather crass statements.

"I just want dinner already!" Orion whined from across Tom. "Where in the world is Dumbles? I'm starved!"

Immediately, the doors burst open and Tom, knowing Dumbledore had just entered, lowered his gaze to the Peverell Coat of Arms on his family ring. Dumbledore was not worthy of his attention. Tom suddenly felt his world give a lurch and he thought he might be sick right then and there, but it passed just as soon as it had come and he scowled, chalking it up again to his "foul disposition" and the hunger threatening to kill him. At the front of the Great Hall, Dippet cleared his throat, clearly about to speak. Confused as to why (the Headmaster only ever spoke at the first dinner of the year and the last and only during emergencies did he deviate from the norm), Tom raised his eyes to the front and watched the Headmaster, careful to keep Dumbledore out of his line of sight.

"Good evening, students." The Headmaster—a fool, Tom thought with a small measure of contempt—cleared his throat. "I apologize for the rather late start to our meal, but I suppose not even the great among us can keep from the occasional tardy here and there, hm?" At this, he sent a rather pointed look in Dumbledore's general direction which the other man was more than happy to ignore. "Well," Dippet continued, as if his rebuke had not been completely blown off. "I'm pleased to, uh, introduce a new student to Hogwarts: Professor Dumbledore's own niece, Hermione Dumbledore!" The doors of the Great Hall opened with a creak and, his interested captured, Tom turned his head. Of course the other students had decided in that moment to stand, effectively blocking his view of her as she walked towards the Headmaster, but he'd be granted view of her soon. Besides, how interesting could some girl really be?

"Get a look at that hair!" Lucretia whispered to her cousin sharply, as if the girl's hair were made of trash. "It's as if she doesn't have anyone to brush it for her!" At this, she and Walburga burst into soft giggles. Tom often admired Walburga's wit and intellect, but he just as often forgot that she was as shallow, spoiled, and vain as the rest of them. Bored and hungry, he decided his wasn't so interested in this rude new girl who prolonged the wait for food with her sudden arrival. He scowled at his family ring.

He hated rude just as much as he hated waiting for food.

* * *

><p><strong>May 2,<strong>**1998**

In simpler times, when Draco Malfoy knew his place in the world—and everyone else's—he, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, and sometimes Zabini often liked to play a game they invented called Wizards and Mudbloods. The game came to them the summer after their first year when, to their dismay, they were told that not even their daddies could bribe the Ministry into overlooking their occasional use of underage magic. Over time, the game got more difficult, complex, and far more violent as the boys grew bigger and more cunning. They learned to set traps, how to hide well, when to strike, and how to use the enemy's weaknesses against them—all without the use of wands. Draco smiled to himself. He and Crabbe always chose to play for the Wizards, the "dark" side, and the one time they were nearly forced to play for the Mudbloods, otherwise known as the light side, the two threw fits and threatened to quit the game. It didn't matter that they always lost. Neither boy ever once switched sides.

"No fair, we always have to play Mudbloods!" Nott complained, running a hand gingerly against his black eye, courtesy of Vincent Crabbe. "You and Crabbe switch with me and Greg."

Draco had smirked at the taller boy. "Fat chance, Wanker_. _My house, my rules!" He declared gleefully. "You'll never see me switching sides." Nott and Goyle groaned at his response and stomped off to prepare for the next round of play.

Draco let out a bark of laughter. How ironic, he thought as he sat alone in some empty hall way on the fourth floor of Hogwarts. Their childhood game had become reality and now the stakes were higher than a handful of galleons and bragging rights. It was life or death now.

In all honesty he wasn't surprised that Crabbe had died from his own hand. In their games he often got reckless—the boy was notoriously impatient—and would fall for the traps set by the other boys or he'd set some half-assed trap and respond in anger when it failed to capture the other team. Draco smirked. How funny life was, showing them Crabbe's fate ages ago.

He was surprised, however, to find that he wasn't all that devastated about the death of his friend. He thought that maybe Crabbe hadn't meant much to him or he was no longer capable of any emotions. Did that make him evil? Draco wasn't sure, but he found that he didn't really care either way. He had more pressing matters to deal with, after all.

The Dark Lord had called a one hour armistice. Draco wondered what his parents were doing. Were they trying to figure out how to get to him? Were they going to leave him? His thoughts drifted to the Golden Trio. Were they going to give up Potter? Draco figured they would on account of how into saving the world and—he scoffed—noble they all were. On the other hand, would they be so quick to give up their savior? They'd try to find a loophole of some sort. Can't have their precious Potty dying on them, after all, no matter how many of their side gave up their lives trying to save his. Draco shifted, his position uncomfortable.

He frowned. Given the chance, he knew he would not be able to give Potter up to the Dark Lord. He couldn't put a finger on it, but something told him that to do so would definitely ensure his premature death. Whether it was at the hand of the enemy or the Dark Lord's, he didn't know. Perhaps they were one and the same now.

So there he was, trapped among the dead and the living, all of whom hated his guts. Out there on the Dark Lord's side wasn't any better. Draco leaned his head against the wall and let out a huff of air. Neither side would hesitate to end his life, Draco knew.

What were they fighting about again? He laughed dryly, knowing that whatever it was, he didn't give a flying shit anymore. He just wanted to see tomorrow.

He dropped his head into his hands. This whole war was pointless and for once in his life, Draco Malfoy was considering switching sides.

* * *

><p><strong>October 1, 1943<strong>

"Ravenclaw!" The Sorting Hat declared after a ten minute deliberation. In those ten minutes, Tom had plenty of time to hate this girl, plan his revenge on her for making him wait to eat, and listen to Cygnus and Orion whine about being hungry. Other houses were still standing, blocking the new girl from his line of sight, but if Lucretia's rather vivid description was anything to go by, the girl was horribly disfigured. Tom had more than a few brain cells to rub together and knew Lucretia tended to exaggerate. Tom's curiosity was squashed the moment his stomach growled.

The Ravenclaws, thrilled at the prospect of having a Dumbledore in their house, burst into wild applause. Tom fought the urge to roll his eyes. It was hardly that exciting. Headmaster Dippet tut-tutted and wished everyone a good dinner. Immediately, the plates on the tables filled with food and Tom felt a surge of pleasure at the sight. _Bless Merlin.._

He was reaching for the meat pie when the new girl, on her way to the Ravenclaw table, walked into his line of sight. Tom felt the world shift from under him and he froze, all thoughts of food forgotten. His eyes drank her in hungrily. It was her: the witch who plagued his dreams and haunted his childhood. A slow grin made its way on to his face. As he watched her getting comfortable in her seat and talking to those around her, he couldn't help but release a soft chuckle.

She wouldn't get away from him this time.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oh yeah, you can definitely look forward to some Hermione and Tom interaction in the next chapter! As always, thank you to everyone who read, added this story to their alerts, favorited, and reviewed! Speaking of reviews..**

**STRAWBERRYLUV: Haha, he is a pretty tortured soul, isn't he? All that's missing is the hair flipping and the gothic novels. I think my characterization of young Tom Riddle is more light-hearted and slightly more pompous and egotistical than the usual. He's still the future Dark Lorrd and he's very dangerous (and evil!) regardless of his sense of humor, but he doesn't take himself as seriously as one would expect. **


End file.
